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Personal Note:

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Poem

Still here, on a day wrapped in blue and fog, learning to become a player in wars and empires, serving the men who plan them.  I sit and watch as the god of night slowly pulls his shade across the sky, turns his key in the lock and the zodiac opens.  Quiet and moonlight spill on the water as I think of warm nights wrapped in confused arms legs and sigh (your hair so long and falling around me).  This searching and travelling towards an impure, unsaid poetry leaves me startled to realize I've been speaking prose my whole life, and I wonder if I've grown mad by my terrible attempts to interpret love and life with underlying truth.  It's so hard to express, manipulate, forge from black and white, beat out with a pen, white hot on the anvil of watermarks and binder's glue these sly expressions hiding melancholy and detachment.  I laugh quiet at my amateurish attempts at stealing nothing from death, ending not in splendor but silence, and can't decide to bow or curse at being all too human.  I close my eyes, remembering the feel of your warm skin, lying next to me in yesterday's sun, you with eyes of a color to shame the sea, and know we all sleep and bleed to death from the grinding rasp of words.  As the low quiet murmurs of others and conversation fade around me, I fall to dreaming, and the pen fails me, again.

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